


Unsteady

by TurtleBread



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Lots of Crying, M/M, They Made a Mistake, Who Let Me Write Honestly, kinda OOC, no happy ending, unless...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleBread/pseuds/TurtleBread
Summary: It's a thought that lingers at the edge of his mind, an inescapable idea that follows him after Quarterfinals. He doesn't want to chase it, but might end up doing so anyways.
Relationships: Oskar "Selfmade" Boderek/Tim "Nemesis" Lipovšek/Martin "Rekkles" Larsson
Kudos: 31





	Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> Hello this angst is a week and a half late and also took me about a week an a half to write because I struggle. :') Honestlyyyyy I'm not super happy with it but I actually just can't write this any more. :( If I get motivated in the future, it might get taken down and reposted. 
> 
> ALSO SAD WARNINGS: This fic hints at rumored roster changes and LS (I love him OK but I needed the angst) is slightly a bad guy in this so :( 
> 
> Major thanks to the Dream Server that has been supporting this work without realizing it hehe; I hope I didn't spoil the pairing for y'all <3

The VOD is just over four hours long. Tim has been in front of the computer for at least eighteen, hitting replay over and over and over again. He can’t stop. It’s addicting, the way he feels as he watches the matches, like his heart is set afire right in the middle of his chest. Like at any moment, anyone could come and twist it right out of him. And maybe then the feeling would go away. Maybe then he would finally know rest. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

No. That’s not true. Rest? Rest is impossible for people like Tim, people who carry hope on their shoulders and drop it mercilessly into the wide-jawed chasm of impossibility. Rest is reserved for people who can bear the weight of those hopeless fools and turn it into something beautiful, precious. People like Martin. People like Oskar. People like Hyli, and Gabriel. Not people like Tim. Not him. 

Tim sighs, long and tired, and curls his legs against his chest. His face drops to his knees as the tears fall once more, though there’s far fewer now than there were five, six, seven hours ago. The VOD rambles in the background, but it’s not enough. He needs something real, something tangible. Something that won’t lie to him, will tell him he’s the worst so he knows it’s the truth. 

He needs to talk to Nick. Nick… won’t lie. Not to him. He’ll tell Tim exactly what he needs to hear, that he needs to leave Fnatic before they leave him. That he needs to find another team, one that might love him instead of leave him to dry. That Fnatic isn’t it for him, can’t be it for him, no matter what everyone else might say. He reaches for his phone, hands trembling, before remembering that Oskar had taken it from him last night as he disappeared. 

Oskar.

He probably hates Tim now. He had looked furious when he left the night before, snatching Tim’s phone right off the bed and slamming the door behind him. He left his own phone behind, but Tim wasn’t brave enough to do anything more than plug it into the charger on Oskar’s side of the bed. He stares blankly at the phone now. He hadn’t had time to say bye to Nick yesterday, but the thought of using Oskar’s phone to contact him makes his stomach churn. He tears his eyes away from the device. Oskar was right in leaving. _How pathetic_ , he thinks, _to need comfort for my own failures_. 

Tim feels the strength leave his body. He stumbles from the chair to the bed, tumbling gracelessly on top of the sheets. Though exhausted, he knows that sleep will not come for him yet. The ceiling is fascinating in its solid consistency, pulses of brief illumination dancing amidst the shadows. His mind vacates at the sight, eyes drying for the briefest of moments as he caves into himself. He doesn’t move, even when the quiet knocks at the door are followed by a lock clicking and a head of blond hair peeking hesitatingly into the room. 

Tim is too tired to do anything more than follow Martin with his eyes as he toes off his shoes and shuffles across the room, pausing at the corner desk to shut off his laptop and drench the room in darkness. His vision adjusts after a few blinks, which is the exact time it takes for Martin to slip into bed beside him and wrap his arms around his waist. He turns wordlessly, burying his face into Martin’s chest. It doesn’t feel as safe as before, but Tim thinks that he deserves that, too. Martin presses his lips into his hair, inhaling softly. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.” Martin’s voice sounds raspy, like he’d just woken up and the first thing he’d done was come to Tim’s room to check on him. He smells like travel-sized body wash and fabric softener, and Tim feels bad for soaking his shirt with his tears. He doesn’t know why Martin is here, why he would want to be here instead of with the rest of the team. He’s afraid to ask. “Just… close your eyes. Get some rest.” One of Martin’s hands moves from his waist to his hair, stroking slowly. Tim closes his eyes and sinks. 

There are no dreams in the depths. Blackness follows him into sleep, and his brain is so full of cotton that it soaks the light from every corner and crevice of his mind. The emptiness shackles him, pulls him deeper and deeper until Tim isn’t sure if he’s drowning or floating. All he knows is that he can’t breathe. He doesn’t know where his hands are, but suddenly they are around his throat and he’s choking, clawing desperately for just an ounce, _just one ounce,_ of air. There are hands on his shoulders. He wants them to go away. They shake once, twice, then a third time before moving from his shoulders to his face. It’s under the gentle motions of a thumb sweeping delicately under his left eye that he slips into consciousness. The wetness is the first thing he notices, and the whispering the second. 

“He’s been crying.” There’s only one person who Martin would be talking to. “I know you’re frustrated but really, Oskar? He was watching the matches when I came in.” Oskar’s response sounds muted with his head still against Martin’s chest. He hears what sounds like a few polish swear words before the bed dips behind his back. Oskar must not have been back for long. “Don’t disturb him too much. I don’t think he slept after you left.” 

It scares Tim how relieved he feels as Oskar crawls in, adjusting to press flush against his back, and throws one arm over his stomach. A part of him wants to turn around and affirm that Oskar is actually real and present behind him. The other part wants to push him away, push both of them away because he’s suffocating and he doesn’t know if he’s cherished or trapped in between them. It’s not a tough battle. The pair grow quiet as Tim rubs at his eyes and sits up.

Tim watches as Martin’s arm falls from his head and joins Oskar’s at his waist, intertwining on contact. It’s a glimpse of the future he dreads to imagine, but he finds himself smiling through the stinging feeling. He hunches over to hide his face, ignoring the searching eyes of his partners. Slowly, he extracts a hand from underneath the blanket and brings it towards the interlaced pair. 

“You’re so cold,” Martin murmurs as Tim’s hand makes contact. He lets go of Oskar to cover the midlaner’s hand with his own. The fingers shiver in his grasp, and Oskar turns his palm up to enclose them in warmth. It doesn’t take long for the first drops of wetness to make their appearance once more, spilling haphazardly onto the sheets. Oskar and Martin exchange a stricken look behind Tim’s back, disentangling so Oskar can rub soothing circles into Tim’s arms. Martin wordlessly backs away, giving the two space. “I’m going to get a warm towel, OK? I’ll be right back.” 

Neither Oskar nor Tim move as Martin wanders into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind him. The hair combing routine that was abandoned by Martin is picked up by Oskar as the sound of running water filters through the room. For a moment, Tim can pretend that they’re back at the gaming house, cuddling close on the chaise lounge as Martin warms up leftovers in the kitchen. For a moment, it’s the semifinals of Summer Split and they’re celebrating a G2 takedown. For a moment, it’s him, Oskar, and Martin against the world and-

The moment is gone. Tim’s phone has buzzed five times in the past two minutes, and based on Oskar’s expression. He knows exactly who it is. He doesn’t want to know the answer, but the words burn through the back of his through and flicker, unbidden, into existence. “Are you mad at me?” Oskar himself looks like he’s been singed by the flame of them and flinches back, a response in and of itself. His eyes are full of sorrow when he turns them to Tim, and Tim cowers away at the force of them. 

“Angel,” Tim’s not sure if Oskar sounds sad or disappointed. He’s not sure he can take it either way. “I wasn’t mad at you. I just can’t believe that LS would spout that shit to you. I’m not mad, OK? Come here.” And when Oskar opens his arms and pats his lap, what can Tim do but crawl right in? He hiccups slightly as he pushes his face into the junction of Oskar’s neck, clutching tightly to the back of his shirt. They hear Martin moving around the bathroom, and the subtle creak of the faucet turning off is audible even through the closed door. 

Martin beelines straight for Tim when he exits the bathroom, stopping only to close the latch on the hotel room door on his way over. The bathroom light stays and casts the room in a bittersweet glow, too bright to hide and too dark to see. Time still as Martin grooms him with a warm towel, cleaning his face through his sniffling before carefully wiping down the rest of his body as Oskar hums an unfamiliar lullaby. Martin’s presence is briefly missed again as he sets the towel down on the chair at the desk before rejoining them, encapsulating Tim in the comfort of warmth of two warm bodies. He waits a long time for his own breathing to even out, mimicking the pulse of these two lovers in bed with him. This time, he has no delusions. “Would you ever leave me?” 

Only silence answers.


End file.
